


You Killed me With your Smile

by Hatsepsut



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Drunkenness, M/M, Oral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:58:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2731631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatsepsut/pseuds/Hatsepsut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can a smile make a man finally snap? Can a smile push two estranged lovers back together? Can a smile make the mighty Champion of Kirkwall finally break down and admit he has never stopped wanting the lover that walked out on him three years ago back?<br/>Yes...if it directed to someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Killed me With your Smile

                                                                          

They had been trudging in the dust covered trails of the Wounded Coast once again, Hawke leading the front, Varric right behind him, Fenris and Aveline just to the side. It was hot and steamy, the heavy plate the two warriors were wearing making them more and more uncomfortable. Fenris had already been teased by Varric for being more broody than usual but Aveline had been positively miserable by noon.

“Thank you for that tip, Fenris,” Aveline’s voice broke through Fenris’ thoughts which were once again centred on their tall, charismatic leader. So it took him a few seconds to understand what she had been talking about. Oh, yes...The slavers he had informed her of a few days ago.

“You caught them, then?”

“Yes,” Aveline smiled. “A whole nest of slave runners working out of the Undercity.”

Fenris felt a wave of righteous vindication surge through him. Maker, he hated slavers!

“I imagine you imprisoned them?” he asked, failing to notice that Hawke had turned his head over his shoulder, watching their conversation with an indulgent, soft smile.

“Sadly,” Aveline replied, not a hint or regret in her tone, “they never made it to prison.”

A bright smile lit up Fenris’ face. “You always know how to make me smile, Aveline.”

Hawke stopped in front of them, so abruptly that Varric nearly crashed into him. Fenris lifted his eyes, to be confronted with a look on Hawke’s face that was both upset and wounded. He vaguely wondered what had gotten into him, when he noticed the mage’s eyes had zeroed in on his still smiling mouth. The wide grin started fading, Fenris’ eyebrows starting to furrow with concern and confusion at the hurt, disappointed way Hawke was looking at his mouth.

“Hawke?” he murmured, “is there something wrong?”

Hawke’s lips turned down in a frown, and he dragged his eyes away from Fenris’ face. He looked away and then his shoulders dropped and a small, wry smile of his own flashed on his lips.

“I have known you for...six years now?” he looked at Fenris again, his eyes caressing his face with a look Fenris hadn’t seen since the night he had walked away from him. His gaze then fell to the red band around the elf’s wrist and the self-deprecating smile grew a bit sadder.

“You’ve never smiled like that for me.”

Fenris was stunned. Hawke had never made any insinuation that the night they had spenttogether three years ago had meant anything more to him. He certainly hadn’t confronted him for his desertion, or tried to pursue him any further. Where had this acute disappointment, this _longing_ he could read in the mage’s bright amber eyes been hidden all this time?

Hawke huffed sarcastically to himself and then turned his gaze away again.

“Hawke...?” Varric was just as stunned, but tried to diffuse the suddenly awkward situation by cracking a joke. “Do you want me to tickle the elf until he laughs for you?”

Hawke swallowed heavily once and blinked repeatedly before replying, in a small, miserable voice “He would never laugh for me, Varric. I’m a mage. A monster. Totally unworthy of...ah, nug shit. Let it go. I’m pathetic and I...I’m tired of it.”

And with that he turned his back to them and started walking again.

* * *

Fenris couldn’t settle down. He had been pacing in front of his fireplace for hours, the look on Hawke’s face, the tone of his voice, the bitterness as he had spoken those words eating away at his soul. He had made Hawke feel like that; unworthy, and unloved. A monster. He had certainly called the tall human that enough times, he berated himself, not ever stopping to consider that he might believe it. Guilt was churning in his stomach. The pain he had read in the mage’s eyes...the longing; it was enough to make his insides clench.

He fingered the red band around his wrist. He had kept it after that night, that little piece of fabric he had ripped off Hawke’s blood red sheets, as a reminder of the most memorable experience of his life, or what he could remember of it. The pain and the anguish he had felt as his memories had returned and then left him in a rush had faded enough; now, only the pleasure and the memory of belonging he had felt swamped his mind and quickened his heartbeat.

Hawke had been the perfect lover that night; sweet, passionate, tender and dominant at the same time, giving himself without restraint, without hesitation. He had made Fenris forget everything other than the burning desire that had been smouldering between them from the first moment they had met. The elf closed his eyes and swallowed hard against the sudden recollection of large, rough hands roaming over his body, of warm breath fanning his hair as Hawke had spooned him from behind, of tortured moans and ragged breathing. He could still remember the white hot rush of pleasure that had seared his body, he could still remember the needy, rough sounds that had escaped his own mouth as Hawke had shown him ecstasy like he had never imagined was possible.

And then his memories had returned and whipped him mercilessly for a few agonising moments before disappearing like sparks in the darkness. For a few blissful moments he had felt whole again, and the emptiness left inside him afterwards was like a gaping wound. The wolf had need to retreat, lick his wounds in solitude, and he had trampled over Hawke’s feelings in the process, he knew that now. He had left and they had never talked of that night again, as if it had never happened. Fenris had even wondered if Hawke had been ashamed of having been his lover, if he had regretted it, and had felt humiliated and angry for the longest time, snapping and snarling to everyone that had questioned him about it.

But, obviously he had been wrong. Hawke had... Maker, Hawke had though he hadn’t been good enough, that he was a monster, that his being a mage had been what had driven Fenris away. He had been dragging all that weight behind him all that time, all that disappointment, and hadn’t even made the slightest indication he had been hurt by Fenris’ behaviour. Hawke was a strong man, proud and capable, grappling life by the proverbial horns, never giving in an inch and laughing in the face of all those that had tried to put him down. To think that he had allowed Fenris’ careless words to hurt him over the years, could only mean that...Maker. Hawke had feelings for him. And he thought Fenris loathed him.

He sighed. Maker, what a mess! How had he managed to completely ruin things between them like that? How had he managed to give Hawke such an incorrect impression of the way he felt for him? The mage thought Fenris hated him, despised him, while nothing could be farther from the truth.

Fenris loved the man.

It had taken him three years to come to terms with his feelings, but Maker, now he had, and he could not keep them inside him any longer. Especially since this morning, when it had been made abundantly clear that Hawke still felt something for him too.

He took a few deep breaths to calm his nerves and quench the fear that was rising inside him like a black wave and before he had time to doubt his decision and change his mind -like the coward he was- he purposely made his way out of his house and to the Hawke estate.

* * *

He thought about knocking, standing in front of the door for a few long minutes, bringing up reasons in his mind why he shouldn’t: it was late, it was impolite, the servants had to be sleeping. He was making excuses. He threw his head back and saw Hawke’s window, half open and a soft light glowing from inside. Making up his mind, he climbed up the balcony and slipped in, before he could convince himself it was a horrible idea.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room, illuminated only by the fire burning in the hearth.

“Come to gloat?” a deep, gruff voice asked him and he whirled around, locating Hawke slumped into the armchair facing the fire.

He nodded no, and then realised Hawke was a little too drunk to tell nuances and subtle gestures apart. There was an empty bottle near his feet and another clutched in his hand.

“No,” he answered, proud of himself for keeping the quiver of nervousness out of his voice.

“What then? Is it that time again?” Hawke’s eyes gleamed in the firelight. At Fenris questioning look, he shrugged and raised the bottle to his lips, swallowing half the contents in one swig. “You know,” he continued, his words a bit slurred, “ _that_ time every three years or so, when you come to me for a good fuck. That’s all I’m good for, isn’t it?”

Fenris’ breath left him in a whoosh. The bitterness in Hawke’s voice stunned him.

Hawke shot up, wobbling slightly. “Come on, then,” he gestured to the bed. “I’ll even let you fuck _me_ this time.” Then his head dropped and his shoulders hunched, obviously defeated. “Maybe this time it will earn me a smile...” Hawke murmured to himself and started fumbling with the clasps and fastenings of his robes, his fingers trembling wildly.

“Hawke...” Fenris’ voice broke, “don’t do this...I am sorry. I am so sorry. I never knew.”

“I’ve counted them you know...” Hawke waved, totally dismissing him. “Your little smirks. Eight of them in the last three years. Seven of them directed to me, one...I’m not so sure. It was in my general direction, so I counted it with the rest of them...”

“Hawke...Garrett. Stop. Please.”

“I wanted you to be happy so much. Every time I did something, or said something that made you smile I was so proud of myself. And today...today you smiled atAveline like that, and I felt...I felt so totally, utterly worthless. I have never made you smile like that. And I never will. And I’m so tired. _So tired_.”

Fenris watched Hawke’s rant with eyes widening in shock and fear. He had a gnawing, sickening feeling inside him that they were nearing a point when things would be said that could not be unsaid, like approaching the side of a road where a horrible accident had happened; once you saw the mangled bodies you could never really _unsee_ them, and yet as you approached you found yourself unable to tear your eyes away.

Hawke had now sat down on the bed and his hands were clasped between his knees. He didn’t seem to be listening to Fenris. The wine had been enough to loosen his tongue, along with the disappointment of that morning; it was ridiculous really, that one smile would have finally made him snap, but it had. He had had three years of silently waiting and hoping; he could be silent no more.

“I am tired of this, Fenris...” he continued, a sigh escaping him. “ I’m tired of being your enemy. You hate all mages, and I am a mage: so, you will always hate me. I thought I could prove to you that I could be trusted, but... I will always be a monster to you. I have finally understood.” He raised his head and a bitter, mirthless laugh escaped him. “That night...that night was the worst mist-”

“Stop!” Fenris grabbed him by his robes and effortlessly pulled the bigger man to his feet. “It was not! It was not a mistake. Do not say it.”

They stood there like this, gazing into each other’s eyes, holding their breaths. Hawke had a confused, searching look on his face and Fenris’ eyes were pleading, apologetic.

“Fenris?” Hawke breath caught as realisation started dawning on him. Hope started raising its head. A shaky smile carved itself on his lips. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

Fenris swallowed once, then twice, his mouth suddenly parched.

“You are a good man, Hawke,” he started and his fingers unclenched from his robes. He took one step back, fear, thick and acrid, rising up to choke him again. “I don’t loathe you...I consider you....a friend. I am sorry for making you feel unworthy.”

Hope died, an abrupt, sudden death. Hawke jerked as if Fenris had hit him. Pity. The elf pitied him. Andraste’s ass, it felt like warm spit on his face.

“I don’t need your pity,” he hissed, suddenly angry. “I don’t want your freaking sympathy. I wanted you, warts and all, faults and everything. I don’t need _this_. I don’t need you.”

He let the words hang, suspended in the eerie silence between them, closed his eyes on them a moment. When he opened them again, they were fierce, glowing a bright yellow, like the eyes of a predator. " _I don't need you_. What a concept. I can live without you, Fenris...I have for three years”

He closed his eyes again, missing the look of panic slowly spreading on Fenris’ face. Hawke voice was now eerily soft, almost introspective, as if talking to himself. “I thought you could...I thought you were the one. I thought you could love me." When his eyes opened again, they were resigned.

His breath came out steady, strengthening him. "My bad. You aren't capable of loving, not that way, not me.” He gave another one of his little self-deprecating laughs. “I wanted so pitifully little from you. I was willing to settle for crumbs and that’s all I got. I'm ashamed of myself."

He couldn't stop himself from reaching out. "Hawke."

His eyes narrowed, determination hardening them. He squared his shoulders and smiled to himself. “No,” he muttered. “No. Three years are enough, I won’t waste another minute on you. Get out.”

Fenris felt like something incredibly precious had just slipped through his fingers. He gripped Hawke’s forearm, determined at last, in his desperation, to speak, to tell him the words that...his head collided with a wall, a sudden burst of energy having sent him flying. He shook his head to clear it, and he put an arm out to support himself. The blighted mage had used mind blast on him. Despite his aching head and bones he pushed to his feet and turned towards Hawke, who was glaring at him with a murderously angry expression on his face, his body coiled in a battle stance even though he wasn’t holding his staff.

A smile unfurled on Fenris face, slowly lifting the corners of his sensuous mouth upwards, until perfect white teeth could be seen.

Hawke was looking at him as if he was crazy, poised for battle, clearly expecting some lightning quick attack.

“I deserved that,” Fenris calmly admitted, grinning.

Hawke froze on the spot, mesmerised by that smile; so beautiful, so precious and directed to him. Him. A mage.

“You certainly did,” he mumbled, obviously perplexed.

Fenris got to his feet and moved to the mage that was regarding him like something rapid that could bite. “Is it my turn?” he cautiously asked the tall human.

“To hit me?” Hawke stuttered, totally captivated by that smile. “I hope not.”

The smirk grew wider, before turning predatory. “No, to do this...” Fenris uttered, his voice hoarse and his eyes zeroing in on Hawke’s mouth, just before tangling a hand in the mage’s dark hair and pulling him towards him, into a searing, possessive kiss.

Hawke gasped in shock, and found his mouth immediately invaded by the elf’s wet tongue and his taste, so unique and unforgettable. He moaned, wrapped his arms around the smaller, lanky man and gave everything he had, everything he was, into that hot, moist kiss.

Fenris moaned. He couldn’t help himself, him, who never made a sound even in the heat of battle; but this was heat of a completely different kind; it was a battle of an entirely different sort. Bodies clung, hands squeezed and tongues battled; breaths panted and heartbeats thundered; desire spilled like red wine in veins, lyrium markings ignited, magic flared.

Finally, seconds or hours later, the need for air made them break the kiss and they stood in the middle of the room, their bodies trembling, foreheads pressed together.

“Will you leave again?” Hawke whispered, words formed on a shaky breath of air.

“Only dead will I ever leave your side again.”

A tremor like a quake went through Hawke’s body at these solemn words and he took both of the elf’s hands in his, to lead him to the bed. Fenris resisted.

“You are drunk,” he explained to Hawke’s questioning look.

The mage denied it, shaking his head, which caused him to contradict himself by stumbling. “Just a little woozy.”

Fenris smiled again, and Hawke brought a hand to his chest. Maker, would his heart ever stop fluttering when the elf smiled?

“There will be time later, Garrett,” Fenris unexpectedly dropped his mouth to the pulsing hollow of Hawke’s neck, giving the fluttering vein a tender lick. He smiled darkly as the mage stiffened and moaned. “I want you to be able to remember this.”

Hawke sighed and wrapped an arm around the elf’s slim waist, unwilling to let him go. He had this horrible suspicion this was all a drunken dream, and he would wake up alone and desperate again in the morning. The one and a half bottles of wine he had drunk had started to catch up with him, making his head spin and his stomach roll, but he wanted this; Maker, who was he kidding? He needed this. He needed it like he needed to draw his next breath.

“Will you sleep with me then?” he shot to the elf, desperate for this sickening fear and need to ease by physical contact, even innocent. “Just sleep.”

His only answer was a small smile (eleven, he thought, counting by instinct) and his clothes being removed, to be joined by Fenris’. He tried not to fall asleep too quickly, wanting to cherish the sensation of warm, male flesh pressing up to his, of Fenris’ heartbeat adjacent to his, of snow-white hair on the pillow next to his.

But he was soon dreaming.

* * *

Hawke woke in the middle of the night, feeling hot and bothered and with Fenris’ name on his lips; it wasn’t a strange occurrence, it happened night after night during the past three years. This time though, something was different. Blinking rapidly, he realised two things at once; his head was throbbing and there was a warm body pressed up to his.

He quickly cast a healing spell on himself to alleviate the pain hammering his brain and took a long inhale of breath. That smell, that unforgettable scent of male musk and lyrium, sandalwood and leather; Fenris. Fenris was sleeping here next to him.

With a rush, the events of that evening came back to him and he nearly gasped. Fenris. He had come to him, and he had ranted and complained like a two-year old, and blasted him against the wall. And he had gotten a kiss and the promise to stay from the elf, instead of a fist through the chest. His breath caught. Maker. This was not a dream. Fenris was really here, and he had come to stay.

He ran a hand tentatively down the muscled back of the elf that was pressed against his chest, stopping just shy of the cute dip at the small of his back. Heart thundering, breath held, he stroked back up, reaching his nape. He pushed the white bangs that had stuck to his neck away, revealing the tender skin, and unable to resist any more he laid a gentle kiss there. Fenris sighed in his sleep and pressed back into him, moulding his pert ass onto Hawke’s hardening shaft. A soft moan escaped the mage who started running his tongue over the rim of Fenris’ elegant pointed ear. He smiled to himself when the elf writhed in his sleep, and let out a small gasp.

Hawke felt like a pervert fondling the man while he slept, but he couldn’t resist. He run his hands tenderly up and down the elf’s biceps, down to his thighs, up his corded stomach, before he wrapped a hand around a semi-hard shaft and started gently pumping. Fenris moaned his name, slowly waking up into the sensation of being surrounded by Hawke’s body, his scent, his hand.

“Hawke?” he sighed, craning his neck back to look at the mage.

Hawke tensed, mentally preparing for a rejection. “Do I stop?” he asked, his voice nearly trembling with desire. It would kill him to stop, but he had to give the elf the choice, he knew instinctively that he had to let him set the pace.

His only answer was Fenris arching his hips so that his shaft glided into Hawke’s fist and an awkwardly slanted kiss. Taking it like the invitation it was, he wrapped his other arm around the elf’s slight but powerful torso, stroking his chest and the pebbled point of his nipples, while his other hand was slowly plumbing up and down his cock, gathering the drop that had escaped him with his thumb.   His mouth was plundering Fenris’ lips, drinking down his moans and little helpless gasps.

Fenris didn’t know what to do with himself, what to do with his hands. His skin felt too tight, his lungs too small to draw in enough breath. Hawke was a furnace of heat on his back, his shaft a fiery brand on his lower back, his hand a vice around his own cock, drawing his pleasure slowly, languidly. He moaned the mage’s name, begging wordlessly for more. A ragged groan answered him, and before he knew it, he was turned on his back and Hawke’s hot, moist mouth was upon him.

Fenris moaned, and writhed as if he was being burned with hot oil. The mage’s mouth was wickedly talented, his tongue lashing and licking and tormenting. Hawke’s name became a chant as the mage pleasured him to the point of breaking and he gripped his own hair and yanked to counteract the pleasure, to avoid ending this too soon; it was in vain. All he had to do was to steal a glance at his member disappearing into Hawke’s eager mouth and he was a goner, coming with a series of deep, agonised groans, his hips arching off the bed until his body was as tense as a bow.

Replete in the aftermath, he didn’t even flinch when Hawke spread his legs wide and went to work on his hole, slipping one and then two fingers inside him, stretching him tenderly, carefully. He opened his eyes a mere slit to look down at the mage who was watching him with a nervous, careful expression, as if expecting to be rebuked at every move. Fenris didn’t want that; he wanted the Hawke he had known their first time together, wild and passionate, not as wary of him as these past three years had made him.

A smile went a long way to reassure the human, who immediately lost some of tension on his shoulders, and returned to the elf with renewed vigour. Fenris nearly tore the sheet apart fisting the bedcovers when a warm tongue tasted him there; Hawke only chuckled, before devoting himself to his task and noticed with a heady rush of pride that the elf was hard again within seconds.

“Nhhh! Hawke! Stop playing around!” Fenris felt himself lose control, a rush of white hot pleasure spreading through his body like a wave; he knew he was close again, and he wanted to be joined to his lover when he came this time.

Immediately, the mage complied, climbing on top of him. He used his strong forearms to push Fenris’ thighs upwards, exposing his opening, and looked deep into his eyes as he started, ever so carefully, to invade him. The elf flinched at the sensation of being impaled by the mage’s virile, potent shaft, and Hawke halted, giving him time to adjust, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear, stroking his hair. It was the tone, rather than the words, full of longing, care and love that relaxed Fenris; his body adjusted, and with a gasp he suddenly found himself joined to his lover.

They gazed into each other’s eyes. “Are you okay?” Hawke asked, his voice trembling, his body poised for action and controlled only a will as strong as iron.

Fenris just gave him a wide, unreserved smile.

“Thirteen,” Hawke counted, before erupting into movement.

Nothing else mattered after that, nothing else but panting breaths, bodies slapping together and hot, mind-blowing, stroke-inducing pleasure.

* * *

A few days later, Fenris was playing cards with Varric, when Hawke walked in.

He turned towards his lover and shot him a small, happy smile. Hawke’s hand came up to his heart and he drew in a delighted little gasp.

“Eighty-four,” he murmured, and then a slow, brilliant smile spread on his face too, dimpling his cheeks and making his eyes sparkle with happiness.

“Okay, I give up,” Varric threw his hands in the air, totally exasperated after nearly a week of trying to guess. “What the fuck **ARE** you counting?”

Hawke’s smile became even larger, if that was even possible.

“My blessings,” he just said.

 

 


End file.
